


The Death of Doubt

by Gingerhermit



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF John, Comfort/Angst, Drama, First Time, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mycroft's Meddling, POV Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock's Mind Palace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-14
Packaged: 2018-01-12 06:55:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,584
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1183228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gingerhermit/pseuds/Gingerhermit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For cccahill18, based on their prompt for johnlockchallenges Valentine's Day Exchange: Mycroft asks for John’s help in rescuing Sherlock from his Serbian captors.  Requested genres: AU, fluff, angst, hurt/comfort</p><p>Sherlock couldn’t decide if it was the kindest or the cruelest trick his mind had ever played on him, to give him a blurry vision of John Watson standing there with haggard lines on his face, the beginnings of an absolutely disastrously scruffy beard, and a grubby knit cap shoved down over his ears. His mouth shaped around that name, the one he hadn’t allowed himself to utter aloud in two years, and it felt foreign as it scraped weakly past his lips.</p><p>“John?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Death of Doubt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cccahill18](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cccahill18/gifts).



> Timeline: In this AU timeline, Mary and John are not together. My headcanon for this is that John hadn’t known Mary for very long when Mycroft swooped in with his revelations, and John scarpered off post-haste. I originally planned to include a scene between Mycroft and John that explained this, but it didn’t really fit. 
> 
> Betas: I have to extend my most heartfelt gratitude to the wonderful beta readers I scrounged up at the last minute, who were willing to help me out on such short notice. Shirley (Prettyrealisticjohnlockfanart), Jade (J-monet), Julia (etnahsmother) and Val (valeromanzi), you are gems. Thank you. Extra special thanks and all of the chocolate goes to Shirley for going above and beyond to help me polish this story until it shines, and for reading over several drafts until I got it right! Thank you x infinity. 
> 
> Other thanks: To cccahill18, for such a thought-provoking and interesting prompt. To the lovely folks behind Johnlockchallenges for putting this all together! I had such a lot of fun doing this.

 

  
_This is where fear was buried,_  
 _silent and still_  
 _beneath the soil of sheets._  
 _Stand the pillows tall,_  
 _make them headstones_  
 _to the death of doubt._

-Tyler Knott Gregson

* * *

From deep within the confines of his mind palace, Sherlock was only minimally aware of the shouted questions, accusations, and taunts drifting through the halls in fairly uninspired Serbian. Sherlock slammed-shut the door to the study where he had barricaded himself, blocking everything else out as he flipped through file after file of old cases. The details were soothing, at times becoming almost a litany of recitation that helped to mask the frequent sparks of excruciating pain that ran down from his skull to his spine no matter how stubbornly (and unsuccessfully) he tried to ignore it.

_The Speckled Blonde: Early thirties, dyed blonde hair, strange red speckles all over her body. The woman, Julia Stoner, had been found in her bed. There seemed to be no obvious cause of death._

Somehow John’s blog had made it into the files. Instead of dismissing John’s writing as overly sentimental drivel, however, Sherlock latched onto it like a drowning man to a buoy. He could see John hunched over his laptop while he typed and occasionally paused, looking up at the ceiling as though some slightly less ordinary turn of phrase might be hiding up there. He could hear John’s voice speaking the words:

_Her sister, Helen, said that Julia had been feeling a bit rundown for the last few weeks but had figured she was stressed because she was getting married soon. It was only after performing the autopsy that I discovered two tiny puncture marks in her right ankle and traces of an unidentified poison in her bloodstream._

“Really, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s presence was sudden and intrusive, even only in Sherlock’s mind. There he was, sitting in an armchair in one of his pretentious suits with his legs crossed as he smugly looked down his nose at Sherlock. “Reminiscing? How positively pedestrian of you.”

“If you have any brilliant suggestions, I’d be happy to hear them,” Sherlock gritted out through clenched teeth, a particularly heavy blow making them rattle. He hoped he wouldn’t lose any; dental work was so tedious. “Otherwise, how should I put this delicately? Piss off.”

“Far be it from me to dictate how you handle torture, brother dear,” Mycroft reached over and picked up a discarded file lying open on the desk. “But when you’re finished cowering in your Mind Estate--“

“Palace.”

“When you’ve finished indulging in this impressive bit of escapism in whatever it is you choose to call this place,” Mycroft corrected with a dismissive wave of his hand, “you might wish to focus on something useful that might facilitate your departure with a few layers of your dermis still intact.”

“I’m chained to a wall, I haven’t slept in three days, and I’ve not eaten in six. I hardly think a nugget of useful information is going to allow me to suddenly overpower this imbecile bare-handed and escape from an underground bunker in the heart of Serbia.”

“Well with a positive attitude like _that_ …” Mycroft held up a photograph from the file in his hands, which did not in fact contain information from one of his cases, but was a picture of the idiot interrogator currently turning Sherlock’s back into ground meat. “Focus. Who is this man?”

“A right-handed brute with severe halitosis and a repulsive propensity for spitting his T’s.”

“What else?”

Sherlock leaned closer, scrutinizing the photograph. “He had one mildly homosexual encounter with one of his close mates in the navy, which ended badly-- mostly his fault, and he’s spent the rest of his adult life overcompensating by copulating with any female who will spread her legs.”

“And?”

“While he’s pretending not to be remotely aroused by inflicting violence on a half-naked male body— really, a pipe? That’s not at all phallic-- his wife is currently shagging a neighboring coffin-maker on their kitchen table.”

“Good. You’ve found his weak spots.” Mycroft lowered the photograph, punctuating each word with forced precision. “Now use them. Unless you’d rather die here, of course.”

“I’m _trying—“_

 _“_ Try harder.” Mycroft leaned forward until his face stopped inches from Sherlock’s, and his voice dropped low with meaning, “Don’t you want to see John Watson again? You’ve nearly finished. This is the last remnant of Moriarty’s network, after all, and then there will be nothing standing in your way…”

“Shut _UP!”_

In the next instant, the study suddenly exploded around Sherlock at the sound of a gunshot, and he heard the raw shout that escaped from his own throat as he was catapulted back into his current surroundings. Pain, there was blinding pain from the mess of his back to his aching jaw, and his arms were numb from being pulled taut by heavy chains. As he blinked away the sweat and blood dripping into his eyes, the blurry room abruptly rocked into focus at the sound of a second gunshot. His cuckolded, repressed inquisitor tumbled to the floor at Sherlock’s feet with a bullet in his brain and his eyes staring up in blank shock.

Sherlock’s ears were still ringing and his head too heavy to lift when he felt strong hands on his wrists, quickly unfastening the manacles clamped too tightly around them. He would have crumpled to the floor on the spot if it hadn't been for those same hands hooking him under the arms, drawing him over to lean heavily on a much smaller body. He was clearly hallucinating from stress and deprivation when he heard a familiar voice in his ear, laced with concern.

“Sherlock? Can you hear me? I need you to try to stand—“

He couldn’t decide if it was the kindest or the cruelest trick his mind had ever played on him, to give him a blurry vision of John Watson standing there with haggard lines on his face, the beginnings of an absolutely disastrously scruffy beard, and a grubby knit cap shoved down over his ears. Sherlock’s mouth shaped around that name, the one he hadn’t allowed himself to utter aloud in two years, and it felt foreign as it scraped weakly past his lips.

“John?”

 

* * *

Sherlock bit back a wince, gritting his teeth while he stared fixedly at the floor as he slumped on a stool, hands digging into his knees. After what he had recently endured, this was nothing—child’s play, really, but he was unable to help remarking through clenched teeth, “The local anesthetic’s starting to wear off.”

“Is it?” Unfortunately, Sherlock’s doctor did not sound particularly concerned as he pulled the last suture tight with a vicious tug that wasn’t strictly necessary. It might have been a mistake to have a particularly irritable John Watson as the physician to tend his wounds, but seeing as it was just the two of them holed away in the temporary safe house until their transport arrived within a few days, the options were limited. Besides, Sherlock could hardly be expected to suture the lacerations on his own back. Logistics aside, the very thought made him queasy. Needles in a vein were one thing, but the act of knitting living flesh together like a quivering, meaty sweater? Repulsive. “Stop moving.”

“Stop _jabbing_ me, and I will.”

“Well maybe if _someone_ ,” John punctuated the word with a snip of scissors, “hadn’t convinced the entire world he was _dead,”_ the scissors clattered onto a metal tray loudly after he finished his work on the last suture, “and gone running off half-cocked across three continents to bloody-mindedly dismantle a terrorist network completely on his own, because god forbid the great Sherlock Holmes need any sodding help—“

“Four.”

“What?”

“Four continents. There was a brief stint in Sydney with—“

“Just. Stop talking.” John’s voice had gone low and quiet, the way it did when he was truly pissed off. “At least while I’ve got sharp instruments nearby, because honestly the more you speak, the more likely it is that I’m going to forget all my oaths and stab you with them.”

“You’re angry.” Sherlock carefully straightened up on the stool from where he had been leaning forward on his knees, biting back a groan as he did so, and turned to look at John. John’s brow was furrowed and he blinked slowly in that way he had that suggested Sherlock had just said something particularly offensive and he was fantasizing about strangling him. Sherlock supposed this wasn’t especially surprising; John was always somewhat volatile when coming off an adrenaline high. His moods would swing from euphoric to snappish depending on the context—and right now the situation was tipped towards the latter.

“Really. What gave it away.” John’s words were clipped, and he folded his arms as he sat back on his stool.

John’s hair was longer than Sherlock had ever seen it, positively scraggly and sticking out in all directions just like his awful excuse for a masculine beard. He’d been undercover for a least a month, but not as a Serb—John was dreadful at learning languages (he’d only learned the very basics of Latin for his medical degree, and Sherlock knew that John barely spoke French despite a year’s study in Uni). An outsider then, likely a mercenary, but British would be too obvious. South African was possible, if John could get the accent right. Doubtful, but not impossible.

“Stop that.”

Sherlock blinked, realizing he had gone silent for an extended period and John was glaring at him. “Sorry.”

“Stop that too.” John sighed, unclenching his arms and fists as he stood up. Slowly the fury drained from his voice and posture, replacing it with something infinitely worse: weary sadness. “You don’t get to say that, either. Not until you mean it.”

“John, I—“ Sherlock attempted to stand, but swayed on his feet. He pitched forward until John’s hands gripped his arms, steadying him. John’s expression drew tight and pained as he looked up at Sherlock.

“Jesus, look at you—you’re dead on your feet, and I’m…” John bit off his words with a deep frown, his anger somehow turned inwards as he adjusted his grip on Sherlock’s arms to steer him towards the bed where Sherlock sank onto the end of it. “Right. First, you’re going to eat one of those awful meals in a can they’ve got stashed away in here, and then you’re going to sleep until it’s time for us to leave. Possibly longer. When’s the last time you properly slept?”

Sherlock glanced at a clock on the wall, taking a touch longer than usual to calculate. “Eighty-four hours.”

“Jesus Christ.” John looked down at him with an expression that Sherlock couldn’t easily catalogue, because it wasn’t one that he had seen before. He looked upset and sad and exhausted and worried and angry and protective, all at once. John’s hand reached up to gently trace a particularly ugly bruise already growing puffy on the side of Sherlock’s face, and Sherlock willed himself not to flinch away. “Look what they’ve done to you.”

Sherlock swallowed, forcing his eyes to tear away from John before his throat became any tighter. “Just a scratch,” he muttered, reaching for the clean shirt that lay folded on the bed. “I think I’ll sleep first.”

 

* * *

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, and took several blinks to adjust to the darkness. He wasn’t sure how long he had been asleep, but it couldn’t have been more than a few hours. His body and mind were both still exhausted. It would take more than a cat nap to replenish himself this time—he could feel his mind moving sluggishly. The very idea of operating at anything less than optimal capacity was unbearable. If there had been anything remotely stronger than NSAIDs in the medical kits, at least then he might have been able to float away and not care.

A movement to his right caught Sherlock’s gaze, and he was mildly surprised to see John slumped in a chair that had been pulled directly across from the bed. John was asleep in what had to be an incredibly uncomfortable position, with his head tilted back and to the side on his shoulder. There was room in the bed for two, but that was probably too close for him. The chair was near enough to watch over Sherlock, but with distance between them.

Preposterous. There was no need to risk compromising the one able body in the room on such petty reasoning.

“John.” Sherlock spoke the name quietly. He was still getting used to the feel of it in his mouth again, wrapping his lips around it like a luxury. “John.”

“Wassit—“ John jerked awake, his eyes darted wildly around the room. His hand reflexively reached for the gun that wasn’t tucked away in his shirt, but was actually (thankfully) on a table across the room. Sherlock’s memories were still hazy, but he distinctly remembered stepping over three bodies on their way out of his little torture chamber, and leaving at least three more in their wake before all was said and done.

“John,” Sherlock said once more, and the repetition of his name seemed to anchor the other man and remind him that it was his to claim. John’s expression calmed, his eyes settling on Sherlock in the darkness.

“What is it?” John asked, shifting to sit up while scrubbing a hand over his eyes and stifling a yawn. “Do you need something?”

“Stop being ridiculous and come here.” Sherlock reached over and turned down one corner of the blanket, baring the space next to him on the bed. “There’s plenty of room.”

“I’m fine here.” John was always too stubborn for his own good, even as he grimaced to crack his neck with a faint pop. “The chair’s fine.”

“I promise not to cuddle.”

“Oh piss off.” John’s mouth wavered in a smile despite himself, and he shook his head. For several long moments John seemed to be waging some kind of inner struggle, and Sherlock waited it out silently until John finally pushed to his feet. “Bugger it, I’m exhausted. Budge over.”

Although Sherlock kept to his promise, he briefly awoke at one point in the night to the weight of John’s arm loosely draped across his middle. A small smile settled on Sherlock’s mouth, and he didn’t move a muscle as he drifted back to sleep. 

 

* * *

When Sherlock opened his eyes again, there was a strip of dim light filtering into the room from a small window high up on a wall. The smell of food wafted through the tiny hovel of an apartment, and even though it wasn’t especially _good_ food, it made his stomach growl.

“Awake yet?” John asked from across the room, where he was taking a bowl out of a microwave. “I’ve got…beans. And toast. It’s not exactly five star, but—“

“At this point, it could be cardboard cutouts and I wouldn’t care.” Sherlock winced as he sat up, every wound on his back feeling tight and hot and raw, and his head pounded in response. He did briefly wonder at a safe-house that was stocked to the brim with medical supplies (minus any form of narcotic) but had little more to offer by way of nutrition than beans and toast, but it had Mycroft’s sarcastic touch written all over it. Although at the moment he couldn’t be bothered to really care.

“It might be, actually. I wouldn’t inspect it too closely.” John seemed to have settled a little more comfortably into Caretaker mode, as he brought the bowl over to Sherlock along with a glass of water. “Careful, don’t sit up too quickly.”

Sherlock shot John an indignant look at this bit of mothering, although it was half-hearted at best. Inwardly, he was a little thrilled to have _this_ John, and not the Angry one back just yet. It was in this spirit that he remembered to be polite as he let John arrange the pillows behind him, and took the offered bowl with a flicker of a smile. “Thank you.”

 

* * *

John’s hands were considerably gentler this time, as he changed the dressing under Sherlock’s numerous bandages and checked the suture lines on his back. His fingers lingered there, tracing the outside of a particularly jagged line very lightly.

“This is going to scar. There’s no way around it.” John’s voice was quiet but clinical. Dr. Watson was back, and even without seeing his face, Sherlock could tell that his mouth was still pinched into the frown that had deepened when he was spreading salve over the cigarette burns on the inside of Sherlock’s arm.

“Then we’ll be a matched set,” Sherlock remarked. He heard John swallow, and his hand withdrew. Sherlock waited a moment before turning around on his stool to face the other man. “Problem?”

John’s face did a funny spasm, as though he couldn’t seem to pick a concrete expression so he settled on something in-between. “Sherlock…”

“Yes?”

John shook his head, once, and managed a small smile as he said quietly, “I haven’t really said…it is good to see you again. This doesn’t mean I’m not still incredibly pissed off. I just—it’s good to see you. Even though…“

“Even though I look like shit?” Sherlock smiled tentatively, encouraged when John gave a slight, dry laugh.

“You look bloody awful.” John agreed, the smile finally reaching his eyes and making them soften.

“Your beard is repugnant.”

“Oh you’re one to talk.” John reached up and fluffed the wild mane of hair that was curling down around Sherlock’s shoulders. At least it was clean now, but that was all that could be said for it. “Bloody yeti.”

“It’s surprisingly difficult to find a decent barber in a Serbian dungeon.”

“Imagine that.” John laughed again, the sound making something in Sherlock’s chest feel light, and when their eyes met for a moment it was as though two years had not passed at all and nothing had changed. John was the first to look away, his smile fading as he drew his hand back. He blinked in surprise when Sherlock reached out and caught his wrist. Sherlock noticed the pulse under his fingers immediately quicken.

“John, I want you to know that I--,” Sherlock began quietly, fumbling a little in his attempt to communicate something so prosaic as sentiment. “It’s not that I haven’t thought of you. I’ve nearly been in touch so many times, but then—”

“Stop. Don’t—“ John swallowed, his expression wavering again and his voice suddenly gone slightly hoarse. “We’re not talking about this now. Right now you need to rest, and I—“

“I admit that I may have miscalculated.”

“Miscalculated,” John repeated, staring at him.

“Yes. I failed to factor in how difficult...” Sherlock paused, searching for the words to somehow make this right. “I failed to foresee how necessary you had become to my daily functioning. I said once that you were a conductor of light, but I was wrong. There’s no light without you, none at all. It’s been excruciating.”

John seemed to have been struck speechless. He simply stared at Sherlock for a long moment before abruptly pulling away. “Bloody hell, Sherlock,” he finally breathed, not letting himself look Sherlock in the eyes. “You can’t say things like that.”

“Why not?” Sherlock frowned, uncertain where he had gone wrong. He was being honest and sincere—he was sharing _feelings._ If even that wasn’t allowed, he wasn’t sure how exactly he was supposed to go about making John forgive him. And if John didn’t forgive him… no, that possibility was not a possibility at all, because the very idea was intolerable.

“Because you can’t!” John was taking this all wrong; he seemed to be getting angry again. “You can’t just—you were dead. For two years. You let me—and I had to find out from Mycroft, of all people. Mycroft! So you can’t just sit there and say things like that, not after…”

“You’re not making any sense at all.” Sherlock’s mouth tucked in a flat line as he studied John. John was agitated, upset, but there also was something else. It bothered Sherlock immensely that he couldn’t give it a name.

“It’s been excruciating for you, has it?” John’s voice had gone quiet once more, and this was a bad sign. “I don’t suppose you had to see me lying dead on the pavement with blood all over my face every time you shut your eyes.”

“If you’ve spoken to Mycroft, I’m sure he informed you why it was necessary—“

“Damn Mycroft!” John’s voice rose in a sudden shout, causing Sherlock to flinch. “And damn you, you utter—you heartless prick.” John stood up abruptly, kicking his chair back with unnecessary force and making it clatter over. He strode several paces away, where he stood with his back to Sherlock, clenching and unclenching his fists. When he finally spoke, John’s voice was quiet again and slightly more controlled. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t-- I think it’s best if we don’t talk about this right now.”

Sherlock stayed quiet, nodding once as he slowly reached for his shirt and wincingly shrugged it back on. It was not difficult to appreciate that John was in fact very, very angry with him. John was so upset that for the first time Sherlock contemplated the very real possibility that John might not actually forgive him. This was a step that Sherlock had missed every time he’d envisioned his glorious return to Baker Street; in his projected scenarios, John was always extremely happy to see him and grateful for all Sherlock had done. The real John was neither happy nor grateful. The real John might not actually wish to return to Baker Street with him at all. 

 

* * *

“Sherlock? What’re you doing?”

Sherlock could see John hovering in the doorway of the small bathroom, his image appearing over Sherlock’s shoulder in the mirror. John had done his best to shave off that unfortunate beard earlier in the day, and he looked much better for it.

Sherlock didn’t dignify such an obvious question with an answer, because it was plain to anyone with eyes that he was hacking away at the god-awful bush his own hair had become with scissors from John’s medical kit. He could see John taking in the scene—Sherlock standing over the sink, dark curls of hair littering the countertop and floor. John’s mouth quivered in a strange spasm that was something akin to amusement.

“You’re using the wrong scissors.”

Sherlock frowned, looking down at the small pair of scissors in his hand. It was true that they were especially tiny and taking a long time of it, but they were sharp and therefore appropriate for the task at hand. “There’s a wrong kind of scissor?”

“For cutting hair, yes. Those are suture scissors.” John disappeared from the doorway for a moment. When he returned, it was with much a larger and sturdier pair of scissors that was likely from the kitchen drawers. “Here, try these.”

Sherlock accepted the trade, returning to his task with all of his focus and for a few moments forgetting that John was still standing behind him.

“We’ll be back in London in a few days, you know,” John said. He leaned against the doorframe, his arms folded and humor sparking in his eyes. “Where they have actual barbers.”

Sherlock didn’t reply, because how could he explain that he couldn’t possibly wait until then to begin the transformation? Even though he’d already bathed and shaved with a cheap disposable razor, his own reflection repulsed him and it felt all wrong. More importantly, how could he expect John to forgive him when he looked like a mountain yak? At the moment, Sherlock barely resembled the man that he needed so desperately for John to remember and like again.

John’s mirth faded slightly as he seemed to catch the intensity of Sherlock’s eyes in the mirror. After a moment, he sighed and held out his hand. “Here. Give me those.”

“I thought you said they were the right pair.”

“No, just—here...” John stepped forward, taking Sherlock by the shoulders and steering him over to sit on the edge of the bathtub. Sherlock sat still as John grabbed a towel from the sink and draped it over Sherlock’s shoulders. “I don’t actually know what I’m doing. But I can hardly do worse than you’ve already done, so there’s that.”

“Hairdressing is hardly a useful skillset in my line of work,” Sherlock reminded him somewhat tersely. John’s small hands were steady and sure as they feathered through Sherlock’s hair, holding the strands out to snip them off. Occasionally, John would touch the uninjured side of his face to turn it this way or that. Sherlock shut his eyes, letting the metallic clip of the scissors and sound of John’s steady breathing lull him into a kind of trance. He almost didn’t notice when the sounds stopped, and John pulled the towel away to shake it out.

“There. Have a look.”

Sherlock opened his eyes, letting John’s hands on his shoulders guide him up and over to the mirror again. The image staring back at him was slightly more acceptable, although his hair was still too long and the natural curl left it poking out in odd directions. The large bruise on Sherlock’s cheek had settled into a mosaic of mottled purple, and he had the beginnings of a rather impressive black eye. On a positive note, he still had all of his teeth.

“I didn’t want to take too much,” John said, reaching up to let his hand ruffle through the finished product one last time. John had spent the last fifteen minutes becoming overly acquainted with Sherlock’s hair, so it wasn’t surprising that he didn’t think anything of tousling his fingers through it now. “Leave some room for a professional to fix my botch-job.”

“It’s fine.” Sherlock’s voice was quiet and he cleared his throat, swallowing hard.  He couldn’t help leaning the slightest bit into the other man’s touch. He hadn’t really been prepared for the onslaught of _feelings_ that being in such close quarters with this man once again would torment him with. He supposed he could chalk it off to his weakened state, but the truth was that John Watson had emotionally compromised him for some time.

John’s fingers lightly brushed his scalp, before he seemed to realize what he was doing and draw his hand away quickly.

“Right. Well, I’ll just….” John trailed off when Sherlock reached out and caught his hand again. He felt John’s pulse speed up immediately, and this time it gave him pause. The puzzle pieces clicked into place, perhaps a bit more slowly than usual given his mind’s current less than optimal state. There was something very obvious that Sherlock had missed, and it had been right in front of him the entire time.

Sherlock held John’s eyes in the mirror as he brought the hand to his face, tracing the back of John’s fingers down the newly smooth plane of his jaw where he’d also recently shaved. John’s mouth moved, probably to protest, but no sound came out. Sherlock pressed this advantage, knowing it to be brief, and brushed his lips over those slightly calloused fingertips.

John finally found his voice.

“What.” John cleared his throat, fumbling for words but interestingly not pulling his hand away. “What’re you doing?”

Sherlock didn’t reply, instead turning around to look at John directly. John’s pupils were slightly dilated, his cheeks flushed, and heart rate elevated, but that could be from anger as well. It was what Sherlock read in the other man’s face that confirmed his suspicions. John _liked_ this. He was still angry with Sherlock, and in a moment he would recover his senses enough to probably hit him. But right in this split second, with John’s defenses down, Sherlock finally put a name to that _something else_ he hadn’t been able to decipher before: Want. John _wanted_ him. Badly. But he wasn’t ever going to do anything about it of his own accord, and he would deny it to his grave if asked. Sherlock’s grip on John’s hand tightened slightly, as he decided his next move.

John was most decidedly and very vocally _not gay_ , as he was so fond of asserting. But he’d never actually outright denied having an interest in men, and his own body had just betrayed that he was most definitely interested in Sherlock. Physiology did not lie. It was time for a calculated risk.

Before John could find his footing again, Sherlock quickly leaned down and pressed his mouth to John’s. John’s mouth dropped open in a startled O, and Sherlock took quick advantage of this. It had been such a long time since Sherlock had bothered to kiss anyone, and even then it had been mostly just an experiment. But he remembered the basics of it, always a quick study, and before long his tongue was working roughly against John’s. John breathed out a soft noise, his other hand grabbing at Sherlock’s shoulder—and if it started out meaning to push Sherlock away, he ended up just hanging on.

Something ignited in Sherlock, low in his gut, a feeling long forgotten from being steadily ignored and pushed aside. He allowed it to flare up anyway, backing John up until the other man’s back hit the wall and pinning the much smaller body against it with his own. Sherlock swallowed every breath and small sound lodged in the back of John’s throat, and somehow the burning ache of his wounds and bruises faded away as secondary concerns.

“Sherlock…“ John finally managed to articulate, even as Sherlock was sucking at his lips in an effort to keep him from doing just that. “Just—wait a minute… Stop.”

Sherlock froze, aware that it was important to follow this particular directive in matters of consent. He pulled back only slightly, looking down at John to take in the sight of him considerably compromised. John’s lips were swollen, and his cheeks flushed and his eyes dazed. His chest was heaving rather impressively, and Sherlock could feel the most damning evidence jutting against his hip. He knew that John wanted this, but he was about to put a stop to it, anyway.

“Please,” Sherlock breathed out, his voice low and affected. He cupped John’s face with both of his hands, cradling it as he murmured, “Please, John. I need this. I need you.”

“You don’t mean that.” John’s voice was hoarse and gravelly, and it caught slightly on the words. “You can’t—“

“I do.” Sherlock searched John’s eyes desperately, willing his sincerity to cross the space between them. He didn’t blame John for being suspicious; Sherlock didn’t exactly have an innocent record in regards to shamming certain emotions when it suited him. What John didn’t seem to understand was that there was no need for him to fake this. He couldn’t lose John, not again and not now. If losing himself in his transport from time to time was what it took to keep him, Sherlock would do it, and gladly. He could hardly consider himself married to his work anymore—there was no work without John. Without John, all was worthless and dull. The world faded to grey without him. “You don’t have to forgive me, John, but please, let me….I need to show you—“

John swallowed hard, shutting his eyes for a moment before opening them to look up at Sherlock. “Damn it,” he muttered, and leaned up to crush his mouth against Sherlock’s again. This time John took the lead, one hand tangling in Sherlock’s hair as he kissed him soundly. John clearly had the benefit of experience, and used it. John’s tongue did things in his mouth that Sherlock hadn’t even _thought_ of, leaving him light-headed and breathless.

In an attempt to regain any semblance of an upper hand, Sherlock shifted and angled himself to press his leg between John’s, earning a muffled groan. Encouraged, Sherlock rocked forward, feeling John’s erection rubbing against his leg through his trousers.

“Oh, god,” John breathed out, his head dropping back against the wall heavily. His voice sounded raw, and almost pained. “Don’t, you’re going to make me—“

“Yes,” Sherlock leaned in, pressing his mouth to John’s ear. “That’s the idea.”

“You bastard,” John gasped, not really seeming to mean it, judging from the way he rubbed back against Sherlock’s leg more than a little desperately. Before long, John was sucking in air through needy little pants. “You’re such a cock. God—Sherlock—“

“John,” Sherlock purred, using his voice roughly and to full effect, as he traced his mouth down the shell of John’s ear. He tasted like cheap soap and bit of salty sweat. “Oh John, I’ve missed you—“

“Fuck.” John’s breathing deteriorated sharply, and soon he was making low little noises in the back of this throat. John’s hand fisted tightly in Sherlock’s hair, and he thrust his hips against Sherlock’s leg until his body went still and tense. Sherlock could feel John trembling against him as a wet patch spread out across the inseam of his trousers, and Sherlock immediately crushed his mouth to John’s again, wanting to swallow and claim every little breath and noise and tremor.

Sherlock kept John upright as the other man slumped against the wall, kissing him until he felt faint himself and even then, kissing him more.

When Sherlock finally drew away and looked down, John was looking up at him warmly. More warmly, in fact, than Sherlock had been prepared for, and it made that hot feeling in his gut twist. 

“Well, that was embarrassing,” John murmured, his mouth curving into a rueful smile. “Haven’t done that since I was a teenager—“

“You’re exquisite,” Sherlock replied, his voice quiet and tinged with awe, and John’s expression turned slightly quizzical as his eyes searched Sherlock’s face.

“You’re really…” John paused, reaching his hand down to palm over Sherlock’s groin. Sherlock breathed in sharply, pushing himself toward John’s hand. “Well. That’s— this is all very… unexpected.”

“I’m not a machine, John,” Sherlock breathed out, leaning in to rest his head against John’s. “I do occasionally want….things…”

“Yeah?” John asked, his own voice dropping a low and his pupils still blown black. He was enjoying this. “What do you want right now, Sherlock?”

“You. Always you.” Sherlock sighed, turning his face in to bury it in John’s hair. Sherlock’s breathing stuttered as he felt John’s hand slipping into the loose track pants he was currently wearing.

“Alright?” John asked quietly, his hand pausing as his fingers stroked over Sherlock’s heated skin.

“Yes.” Sherlock’s entire body shuddered as he felt John’s hand close around the length of him, fingers exploring every crevice even as Sherlock grew harder in his hand. “God, yes. John…”

“Hang on…” John withdrew his hand, and Sherlock was mortified to hear himself _whimper_. John chuckled—a low, gentle sound, as he merely raised his hand to lick his palm, before returning to its previous location. John’s hand was slick and warm when it closed around his cock a second time. “There. Better?”

Sherlock’s only reply was to push his hips forward, his brain short-circuiting as all of his focus narrowed down to just John. Nothing existed except the warm slide of John’s hand over his erection, the hot puff of John’s breathing against his neck. Sherlock’s body leaned heavily against the other man, who had slung his other arm carefully around Sherlock’s waist to brace him while taking care to avoid the worst of his wounds.

John’s hand did a little twist as it moved, thumb circling the head of his cock and spreading the sudden beads of wetness to add to the friction under John’s palm. Sherlock felt his legs trembling, barely holding himself upright, as he thrust into that hand. It had been years since anyone other than himself had touched him like this, and the sensations overwhelmed him completely. He was vaguely aware of John’s lips on his neck and jaw, of John murmuring words of encouragement, but all of that faded into a white-hot flash.

When Sherlock drifted back to his senses, his face was buried in John’s throat and he could feel his own body still quivering. John breathed out a low hum, somewhere between amusement and a great deal of satisfaction. “Well, at least I’m not the only one who came in his pants today. So there’s that.”

 

* * *

“I’m still angry with you,” John informed Sherlock as they lay twined on the bed. John had been very careful of Sherlock’s injuries—overly careful, if you asked Sherlock – as he’d mapped every plain and angle of Sherlock’s body with his mouth. The second time Sherlock came that night (or day? He’d had lost track), it wasn’t in his pants. “This doesn’t change that.”

“But?” Sherlock asked, his fingers tracing idle clefts of music over the warm skin of John’s back. He felt like he could already compose a symphony about the sounds this man made, the expressions his face contorted into when he was on the verge of ecstasy. And he just might.

“You knew I was always going to forgive you,” John said with a smile, his face so soft and happy that Sherlock never wanted to leave this bed. It was such a sharp contrast from John’s ragged anger of before that it made him uncertain.

“I didn’t, actually.” Sherlock looked down at him with a frown. “So… you do? Forgive me, then?”

“Yes, of course.” John shook his head, leaning in to press a soft kiss to Sherlock’s mouth. “Of course I do.”

A growing buzz reverberated throughout the room, steadily growing louder until everything vibrated and shook. A helicopter. Mycroft, then. No doubt with some all-important errand to send them on, since he’d gone through the trouble of sending John to extract him. Sherlock sighed. “Back to Baker Street, I imagine.”

“London will always need Sherlock Holmes.” John’s expression was still warm and happy as he sat up and began to hunt for his clothes. He looked back at Sherlock, who hadn’t yet moved, and then he smiled. “Almost as much as I do.”

Sherlock smiled back, John’s words warming him in a way that he couldn’t quite quantify. Sentiment. The idea of it wasn’t nearly as repulsive as it used to be, not when sentiment caused John Watson to look at him like _that_.

“Now put your trousers on,” John said, tossing a pair of pants over to him. “We look properly shagged enough without greeting your brother stark naked.”

“It would serve him right,” Sherlock groused, although he did sit up and began to pull on his clothes. “He never could resist meddling.”

“Yes, well. I have to say, I’m rather glad he didn't resist this time.” John dressed quickly, and turned to smile at Sherlock with _that look_ again. Sherlock would never get tired of John looking at him that way, as though Sherlock was the best thing that ever happened to him instead of the worst. He decided then and there that he would do everything in his power to make sure John never had reason to look at him any other way, ever again.

“I suppose it’s not the worst idea he’s ever had.”  

“Come on, then.” John held out his hand. “Back to Baker Street it is.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Sources: Quotes directly from John Watson’s Official Blog (http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/)


End file.
